


Twofold

by mangacrack



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, First Age, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-05 16:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: The Fëanorians win the battle in Doriath and change the fate of the Sons of Dior forever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Feanorian Week. Day 6, Ambarussa. 
> 
> I'll remind you that hostages used to be a thing, especially among royalty. Guessing how fast Half-elven children are growing up, is a bit difficult. But as far as I'm concerned Elruín and Elured are around 3 years old.
> 
> Not Beta read. I'll come back soon and correct the mistakes I just found!

"Take care of them," Maedhros hisses, when he shoves two quivering boys in their direction. 

Amrod throws a questioning glance towards his twin, but Amras only shrugs. While their oldest brother storms off, still high from the battle and covered in Sindar blood, one of the twins gets up and walks up to the prisoners left in their care. They're still young. Young enough to count as children, but grown enough to survive without their parents. 

Parents they're probably never going to see again, as far as Amrod is concerned. 

"Get inside the tent," he orders. "Or do you want to freeze to death out here?" 

To the boys his voice may sound harsh and cruel, but Amrod isn't particular inclined to coddle Dior's sons today. They're still picking up the pieces and tend to the wounded. Thankfully neither he nor Amras are injured, aside from a few minor scratches and bruises. He watches the boys scramble inside the tent, where they cling to each other. Too afraid to move, let alone try to escape.

Good. 

He doesn't know, how Nelyo got a hold of these two, but they're are good insurance that Doriath won't try anything stupid. With their children in tow, they don't have to fear an act of retaliation. Not that Amrod would know how much of Doriath meager army is actually left. Since Melian protected them for so long, the Sindar had no trained forces, aside from the sentries stationed along the forest. A few palace guards, but nothing what ultimately presented a danger to their host. 

_We survived the Nírnaeth Arnoedid,_ Amrod remembers, his face hard and grim. _We faced Angband. What hope had Doriath to keep us out?_

_They were foolish,_ Amras comments on the thoughts of his twins. They're incapable of keeping secrets from each other, because they minds are too close, far too entwined to ever be untangled.

Fëanor's insistence on two separate names turned out to be the wiser choice in the end, because the twins knew neither could survive without the other. They couldn't even go separate ways for more than just a few days. It hurt to be parted from his twin. Amrod sits down next his brother, in front of the tent, because they don't have anything to do right now but recover, and hugs him. Embrace Amras, as if he wants to crawl under his skin and become one being. But that's not possible, not even for them. 

They sit like this for a long time, aware of the sleeping boys inside their tents, who are too tired and too confused to hold on any longer. 

Hours later, deep into the night, Maglor comes and brings them a bowl of soup. 

"He's going to make it," is the first thing their older brother says. "The healers aren't sure, when he will wake up, but he will live for now."

The twins breath out in relief. Moryo is already dead and Curvo is hanging on the edge of sanity after the death of his wife, they can't afford to lose Tyelko as well. Of course there's still the matter of his injuries, but they nursed Nelyo back to health as well. No reason what Celegorm shouldn't be up and running in a few months. 

"What is going to happen to them?" Amrod asks and points behind him. 

Maglor angles his head to get a look at the twins, before he shrugs. 

"We'll figure something out," he says. "Since the Silmaril is ours again, we won't need them as a bargain chip. But we should keep them alive and well. We haven't fallen so far that we're slaughtering children." 

"So, they're going to come with us," Amras remarks. He doesn't look very happy about it. It's not difficult to guess, who's going to get saddled with babysitting duty. 

Maglor grins and the cut above his left eye makes him look like a maniac. 

"Nelyo is occupied with reorganizing our troops, I've to keep an eye on Tyelko and Curvo, so you're the only ones left," Maglor lists up. His smile falters, because he has to leave Moryo out of it. 

They're only six now. There're only six of them left. Of course, they rode into battle knowing not all of them would return. One dead brother is far better than they expected, but it still hurts. Moryo is going to leave a rift. A hole, no one is going able to fill. Many outsiders, even among the Finwions never spared Moryo much thought. Most just knew him as Caranthir, the angry Fëanorian. 

_He was so much more than that,_ Amras tells him and Amrod takes his brother's hand. They can't talk about their brother yet, but they will. Soon. Or else the grief is going to swallow them. 

Perhaps a distraction in form of two helpless boys isn't going to be so bad as he first anticipated. 

"Anything specific in mind?" Amrod rasps and nods towards the sleeping sons of Dior. 

"Just keep them alive for now," Maglor answers and shifts his weight of is probably broken ankle. "I'm sure Nelyo'll come up with a plan for them soon. Something like using them to mobilize the Sindar and the Avari for the fight against Morgoth, but they're too young to fight yet." 

"Are you sure, they're going to help after what we just did?" Amras asks, a little irritated. His gaze travels towards the tree line. They're aren't far away enough from Doriath yet to truly get comfortable. 

Yet Maglor doesn't seem fazed about the Elven blood on his hands. How, when his entire armor is drenched in it? 

Instead he says, "Why not? It's just a matter of propaganda. We did try to bargain and Dior refused every single attempt to negotiate  With the Silmaril back in our hands, there's no one left to openly challenge us. I mean, it's been thirty years since Fingon's death and they're still debating if Turgon or Gil-galad is actually King of the Noldor." 

Amrod snorts, but put like this it's definitely true. The House of Fëanor is the only functioning major force left in Beleriand. The rest is scattered and hiding. Even Nargothrond is no more. News, which had hit Celegorm and Curufin harder than they wished to admit, but Amrod knows that this was just one of their many reason to petition for a more active retrieval of the Silmaril. 

"Come on, let us at least try to find some sleep," Amras says and pulls his twin into tent after Maglor left them. 

Of course Dior's sons are still there. Wrapped up in each other, cuddling and trying to make themselves small. As much as Amrod wants to blame them for Moryo's death, for Tyelko's injuries and Curvo's hinged mind, he's better than that. It was pure chance that Celegorm stumbled over the boys and send them back to the main host with a few warriors. Rumors say he killed a few soldiers, who tried to harm to boys. 

_What are we supposed to do with them?_ Amrod wonders. _They're so tiny and we just ripped them away from their home._

_We could give them a better one,_ Amras offers. He yawns and settles down next to the boys, intend on letting them sleep between himself and Amrod. _How long do you think, they would've survived in Doriath? Without the girdle the kingdom was bound to end up attacked sooner or later. Either trough us or by Orcs. Now with the death of the Arafinwions, there's nothing which protects Dorthonion from Morgoth anymore._

_You're right,_ Amrod sighs and presses his body against the other boy, who's small enough that the children almost vanish between them.

The boys barely even react, only their crying subsides. The child in his arms stops trembling after a while and slips into a deeper slumber. While Amrod has no clue what he's supposed to do.

 

-

 

Strange as it is, but life goes on. If there's outrage about the Fëanorian's have done, than none dares to say it out loud. Perhaps this has to do with the image the Fëanorian host presents. Bloody, battered but unbroken and as strong as ever. Moryo is hailed as a hero, since his involvement in reclaiming the Silmaril from Nimloth will never be forgotten. What else follows them on their journey home are whispers of wonder and awe. From time to time the Silmaril changes hands among the brothers, but for the most part Curufin guards it. It gives him something do to. Lets him forget that they have his wife wrapped in a banner somewhere.

Somewhere in the wild plains of East Beleriand they hold the burials.

Amrod's face is grim, when Caranthir and Talaneth light up and their bodies are taken by the flames. Quite a few soldiers follow them after and this night the flame raise to the sky.

How many dead Doriath will have to bury? Amrod didn't ask, before. He wasn't ready to hear the answer, but as far as he knows Dior and Nimloth are still alive. They didn't go in there to slaughter normal citizins. They killed guards and fought back when they were attacked, but for the most part the Sindar were too surprised to manage even that. No one of them suspected that the Fëanorians could just show up at their doorstep. 

Well, it had been ridiculous easy to venture into the forest unnoticed, after they had taken out the border guards. After Thingol's death through the Dwarves, Amrod refuses to feel sorry about that, most of the Sindar retreated to Menegroth, leaving their roads and their forest empty. By the time someone finally sounded an alarm it had been too late.

Now where it's over, where blood has dried and been washed off, everything could go back to normal.

If weren't for the child that's not leaving his side.

Amrod supresses a sigh, because they noticed quickly that Dior's sons are sensitive. Trusting, despite their situation. Intelligent and so far too frightened to act out. They are both holding onto him and Amras like a lifeline. During the day the ride in front of them on their horses and during the night the cuddle against them, while they sleep. If they've spoken to each other, than in gestures or via oswanë only.

It's not difficult to remember how they have been like during that age. Inseparable. A single unit full of mischief. These were different times, but Amrod can see the similarities. Natural for the children to cling to them, since they recognize something of Ambarussa inside themselves. For there are no other twins in Doriath. Amrod would know. They tracked down every rumor of siblings like them. So far they found only one pair among the Avari, two women, like them.

Twin births are uncommon among the Eldar and Amrod wonders what Dior told his sons.

 

-

 

"What are we going to do with them?" Amrod finally confronts Maedhros one day.

They settled down, erected a camp with is made out of tents, soldiers and horses. No one is going to find them here, every enemy can be spotted miles and miles away. It's safe and a good place as any to regain their strength. But he needs to know what to do with Dior's sons. It's unfair to cart them around like cattle. Maedhros made a decision amd captured the boys instead of sending them back. Now he needs to go through with it.

"You're talking about the children."

Maedhros barely looks up, but he doesn't need to. Amrod sees anyway that his oldest brother is a mess. They all deal with the kinslaying differently, but in Nelyo's case it's Moryo's death which weights on his mind. They all deal have to deal with the question, if the Silmaril had been worth such a sacrifice.

"Of course, I'm talking about the twins you shoved into my arms a few nights ago," Amrod shouts. "I know you're hurting, we all are. But you need to get a fucking hold of yourself, Russandol. You're acting as if Curvo and Tyelko don't exist and they need you the most right now."

Amrod slams his fist against the next solid surface he can find, and the pole which holds the tent upright, wavers dangerously.

After inhaling deeply, Amrod continues a little more calm, "I don't mind taking the children off your mind. You've enough on to do right now. Just tell me, what your endgame is."

Maedhros lets out a hollow laugh and buries his face in his hands. "How I'm supposed to know? I took them with me on a whim, after one of the soldiers brought them to me. At that point it I didn't even knew how many of us had survived or if we had been successful."

"Do you want to send them back?" Amrod asks, but a part of protests against that.

What does Dior know about twins? One of the boys will be his heir, the other a spare. Theoretically it's for the best, but knows if that is actually true? Doriath is no place to raise a child. The forest isn't safe and it won't take long, before Orcs will invade it. 

"As guilty as I feel of adding cradle robbing to my list of sins, I'm not sure if reuniting the boys with their parents is a good thing," Maedhros muses. He leans back to rub his aching shoulder. One of palace guards had rather successfully thrown him against a tree and it still hurt like hell. "Morgoth's influence is growing, he's already claimed Hithlum. Doriath will follow soon and if the reports are true, the Sindar making their way south towards Sirion."  

Amrod responds and crosses his arms over his chest, "Not an answer." 

Perhaps he has only known them for a week and hasn't even asked for their names yet, but he isn't willing to give up the boys. The world is dangerous and they're more likely to survive if they know how to fight. Amrod will face the day, they've grown up and wish to return to their people, but until that happens he's always going to feel responsible for them. 

Maedhros huffs a little and studies his little brother. 

"I think, you already have your answer, Pityo. No matter what I say, you two have already determined what'll happen to the Diorions." 

Something gleeful and possessive rises in Amrod's chest. Without a question that his twin feels the same. With a triumphant smile, he turns around and leaves Maedhros' tent. With an official permission from his brother, he can finally work on winning the boys' trust. 

 

-

 

Days stretched on, while the wait for Celegorm to recover. Out here in the open they only had the weather to deal with and it provides the host the opportunity to recover. There isn't much to do, beside flick their clothing, nurse their wounds and repair their weapons. A small contingent had been send back to Amon Ereb. After they had been forced to seal Himring and leave the fortress behind, most of their people lived near the hills. 

Curufin worried himself sick, because no one knew where Celebrimbor was. Last news of him had been that he left Nargothrong, when Túrin became Captain. Where he ended up with his people, is still a mystery. Maedhros guessed that their nephew formed an alliance with Gil-galad. A wise choice, but Amrod knows from experience that the Isle of Balar isn't big enough to hold so many Noldor. 

"Any changes?" Amrod asks, when his brother returns to their tent. 

As always the boys keep to themselves. They behave well enough that one of them suffices to keep watch. 

"Still asleep, but the healers are confident that he's going to wake up soon," Amras says. "They say that Tyelko is lucky that Dior's sword couldn't pierce his armor entirely. If he had, he would've been dead within minutes. Now the shard was the only thing we had to worry about." 

"We could've lost them so easily," Amrod murmurs and resumes the task of sharpening his sword. 

Them. Plural, because Curufin isn't out of the woods yet. He still might fade and follow his wife, but Amrod hopes that the Silmaril and Celebrimbor, no matter how far away, will help to ground him. 

"Is Ada alright?" A small voice speaks up. 

It's the first time Dior's son address them directly. So far they barely said a word. Well, it isn't surprising that their father's name would finally break the shell they've hidden themselves in. They're still children, too small to act on their own. Live on their own. Amrod guesses they never even held a hunting knife or ridden a pony. 

Without aid or supervision they'd die. Within days they'd be nothing but a small bundle of a forgotten tragedy. 

"I don't know for sure," Amrod answers honestly and watches the twins crawl out of the tents. They have been given furs to wear, since the winter is harsh and cold, but seen they'll need proper clothing. 

One of the twins' lips quivers slightly. 

"Is he dead?" He asks and inside his head he hears Amras' groan mirroring is own. "Like all people we saw laying around?"  

Of course they'd be able to distinguish between dead and asleep. While it's less common among the Sindar, they do eat meat and hunt their game like all others Elves. Not to mention that someone probably explained to them, why Luthien wouldn't never wake up again. For the death of Luthien was the one of the reasons, why they demanded the Silmaril back from Dior in the first place. For a long they assumed the jewel remained in Luthien's possession, not in Thingol's, and Maedhros degreed that they wouldn't go after a woman, who faced Morgoth with nothing but bravery and her mortal at her side. 

"As far as I know, your father survived," Amras joins in and kindly doesn't mention that Dior only lived, because their warriors had been to focused on saving Celegorm's life. "And your mother was seen fleeing the palace, so they should be fine." 

The boys seem to be relieved after hearing that and etch closer to the fire. One of them goes so far and rests his head on Amras thigh, who dares to stroke the black curls. 

"That's good," the other twin mumbles. The one, which is closer to Amrod and picks up a stick to poke the fire. After a moment he asks, "Will they be happy without us?" 

_Stars above, of course they'd notice that no one is coming to get them,_ Amrod swears.

He can't exactly promise to bring them back, not after what they decided. Though that's far from final, since neither Celegorm nor Curufin have been consulted yet. Even feeling of abandonment can only work out in their favor, but world do they live in, where a heartbroken face of a little elfling is a good thing?  

Wrapping an arm around the child, Amrod notices how small the little boy truly is. How breakable. 

"What's your name?" He wants to know. They never got around to it in last days. 

The boy looks up to him and wrinkles his nose. 

"Nana calls me Meiniôn." Pointing at his brother, who has fallen asleep, the child says, "And he's Taidhên."  

It takes all of Amrod's self-control not to swear. Loud and unsavory. He has heard of the practice of the Sindar, that they have the habit of not granting a child their own name until they're at least twelve years old. But _first son_ and _second child?_ Even their own father was a _little_ more creative than that.

"Anything else?" Amras asks and draws the younger boy into his arms. "Have your parents never called you by another name?"

Meiniôn shrugs. "Elurín and Eluréd."

_That's not much better._ TheAmbarussa come to the same conclusion. Maybe it's their distaste for Thingol himself, but they both think that focusing the entire self of a child on a dead grandfather can't be right, because translated their names mean nothing more than 'Heir of Thingol' and 'Rememberance of Elu'.

_Technically we've all a -finwë slapped at the end of our own names,_ Amras tells him. But he, too, is torn about calling the younger twins as such.

_As if anyone ever used our full names,_ Amrod protests. _We've all been shorted to Pityo, Telvo, Turko or Cáno._

_Unless father was angry,_ Amras snickers.

_That's different._ Amrod makes a face and sticks out his tongue. Seeing Telvo laugh at this, makes the whole argument worth again.

Then he turns to the older twin, who more or less crawled onto his lap. It disturbs him far less than he thought it would. But child of an enemy or not, neither of the twins are responsible for whose blood they carry. Luthien at least, so even the Fëanorian brother have to admit, is someone worth of respect. 

"Would it be alright for you, if we call you by a different name?" Amrod asks the sleepy child. "You're among Noldor now and an additional epessë can make your life easier." 

Despite his efforts, Amrod doesn't get a comprehensible answer this evening anymore. Elurín and Eluréd have wriggled themselves under the thick furs, pressed against the chest of each Ambarussa. Amrod looks at his twin, who shrugs helplessly. This isn't usually their fort. Maedhros and Maglor are the ones, who always got saddled wit babysitting duty. Celegorm always took over, when it outside activities were concerned. 

No, with the exception of Celebrimbor Amrod doesn't have a lot experience with children. 

"I fear we might be stuck with them for a while," Amrod huffs, because if they had to raise those children, they'd do it right. Ambarussa's preferences and connection to the Avari down south, the boys will grow up with at least a part of their heritage. Dior might be an idiot, just like his grandfather, but there was no reason to separate the twins completely from their Sindarin culture. 

Besides if things went south, if Morgoth's armies pressed further inwards, they could always send the boys to Elves living in Taur-in-Duinath. While Elurín and Eluréd could easily mistaken for children of the Noldor, thanks to their black hair, but their features are distinctive enough. And Oropher'd never turn children in need away, regardless of his personal opinion. 

"You say it as if it's a bad thing," Amras gives his answer to his twins earlier comment, while carrying the elfling in his arms back inside the tent. 

Amrod looks down at Eluréd. The child could've easily been his enemy, still might, depending on how much he's going to remember about the events that brought him into the hands of the Fëanorian host. 

"No, I guess not," he says with a kind smile. 

That moment a weight falls of his shoulders and the hardened features of his face melt a little, transform into something softer. A mix of anxiety and happiness pulls in his stomach, and Ambarussa wonders if that's what love feels like. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a PWP full of twins. Something nasty and dubcon-ish. But somehow I stuck closer to canon, the Sons of Dior remained children and I ran with the idea. Spend a lot of time debating which Fëanorian's should die, if at all. But for reclaiming the Silmaril, sacrifices must be made. All in all, the AU happened, because the Fëanorians managed to sneak up on the Sindar, who were too surprised to put up a proper defense. Hence, less casualties than in canon. 
> 
> By the way, I'll mark this as WIP. Though I've no idea when and if I write another part. The option is definitely exciting., but you'll have to wait a while.


End file.
